


One Simple Idea

by nishizono



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-07
Updated: 2011-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishizono/pseuds/nishizono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They'd kissed in the airport after the Fischer job. It was the most efficient inception Arthur had ever witnessed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Simple Idea

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=ships_harry)[**ships_harry**](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=ships_harry) for looking this over for me, and to [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=thepinkrabbit)[**thepinkrabbit**](http://www.dreamwidth.org/profile?user=thepinkrabbit) for her endless encouragement ~~of my dangerous Eames/Arthur habit~~.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** None of these characters are mine, nor am I being paid to play with them. All characters depicted in sexual situations are considered by the author to be over the age of eighteen, regardless of their age in the source material.

It starts with an idea.

~*~*~

“Eames will be here tomorrow.” Ariadne says it offhandedly, like Eames' impending arrival is only slightly more important than the weather. She doesn't even look up from the model she's building.

Arthur stares over her shoulder at the labyrinth she's created and says, “Oh.”

~*~*~

It rains the next day. Thunder shakes the city and flashes of lightning send people scurrying for shelter. Arthur sits at his desk in the tiny flat that serves as temporary headquarters and stares out the window. London is a monochromatic smear.

The door bursts open around noon, and Yusuf bustles in, holding a dripping umbrella and a bag of groceries. Eames trails along behind him, soaked from head to toe and grinning like a madman. The first thing he looks at is Arthur. It's _always_ Arthur. Even when Ariadne runs up to him and fusses over his wet hair, Eames stares straight into Arthur's eyes.

“Darling, you're looking as lovely as ever,” Eames croons once he's finished saying hello to the others. Ariadne has carried his shoes off to dry by the radiator, and the sight of Eames in his shirtsleeves and socks does something terribly indecent to Arthur's self-control.

“You're dripping on my background reports,” Arthur replies. He moves the stack of papers and spends some time rearranging them, secretly hoping that Eames will take that as a cue to go away. Of course, luck is rarely on his side when it comes to Eames.

Eames crouches beside Arthur's chair and looks up at him. He's smirking, cocky as ever, but there's a warmth in his eyes that Arthur would rather not think about. “It's been almost a year. Can't you think of anything else you'd rather say to me?”

Arthur turns away, bows his head over the notebook he's been writing in, and says, “No.”

~*~*~

They'd kissed in the airport after the Fischer job.

Eames had ambushed him at the other end of the baggage carousel. He'd grabbed Arthur from behind and spun him around, then kissed him on the mouth before he could pull away. Arthur had been caught so off guard that later, he couldn't remember anything except flashes of sensation: Eames' tongue against his, Eames' fingers in his hair, and Eames making quiet humming noises into his mouth.

“Arthur,” Eames had whispered, “I promise you, someday you'll want to kiss me back.”

And just like that, he'd disappeared into the ether, leaving Arthur to stand there in the terminal with his hair mussed and his fingertips pressed to his mouth.

It was the most efficient inception he'd ever witnessed.

~*~*~

The whole world is built on ideas: governments, corporations, nations-- all artificial constructs, byproducts of the human mind trying to bring order to chaos.

~*~*~

They're two levels deep, in a maze of desert heat and mortar shells. It's a practice run, but Eames' projections are confused and scared, and they know that Arthur and Ariadne don't belong.

“As much as I love wartime Iraq, my dear, maybe a little _less_ realistic next time?” Eames says.

Ariadne gives him an exasperated look.

“Never mind,” Arthur says. There's a mob headed toward them from the south. He can hear their shouts and the rat-tat-tat of machine guns. According to his watch, they have eight minutes until the kick. They're not far enough under that they risk tumbling into limbo, and there's no reason to stick around longer than they have to. He eyes Ariadne and Eames and asks, “What do you want to do?”

Ariadne pales. She's never developed a stomach for suicide.

“Hide, then,” Arthur says. He grabs Ariadne's hand and drags her along behind him as he takes off down the street. Eames follows. They duck into a ruined little cafe and crouch behind the counter together, panting softly and trying not to cough from the dust.

“How long until the kick?” Ariadne asks.

Arthur checks his watch again and frowns. “Seven minutes.” More than enough time for the projections to find them.

When the door of the cafe bursts open, Arthur is proud of the way Ariadne sighs and stands up to face the projections instead of cowering behind the counter. Not that he blames her for being afraid-- dying is unpleasant, even in dreams-- but she's making progress. The projections pour into the cafe, but to Arthur's surprise, they bypass Ariadne completely and head straight for him.

“What--?” Arthur manages to say as he's grabbed by the arms and hauled backwards. He tenses, waiting for the knife, or the gun, or the snap of his neck, but nothing happens. There are hands on his hips, on his shoulders, on his arms, holding him still but not hurting him.

“Darling, hush,” someone whispers, “we've got you.”

Arthur wakes with a gasp.

~*~*~

Arthur deals in absolutes. He deals in the who-what-where of things, but never in the _why_. He gave up on that question a long time ago. The search for meaning leads to the formation of assumptions, and assumptions lead to disappointment (because sometimes, something means nothing).

~*~*~

The rain doesn't let up. It's a bad storm, even by English standards, and it threatens to bring London to a standstill. Arthur is all the way out in Wimbledon when flooding in the underground forces them to shut down the Northern and District lines.

“I can't believe,” Arthur complains to Ariadne over the phone, “that I've been standing out here for fifteen minutes and I haven't been able to flag down a single taxi.”

“Are you still in Wimbledon? Eames is nearby, you know. I could ask him to--”

“No,” Arthur interrupts. “Absolutely not.” Another taxi whizzes by, and he barely manages to dodge the spray kicked up by its tires. “Just see if you can book me a cab, will you?”

“This is ridiculous, Arthur. He's _literally_ two blocks from you.”

“I said no,” Arthur snaps. He's not usually so short-tempered with her, but he's cold and tired, and his umbrella is doing nothing to protect him from the sideways-slanted rain.

A black sedan pulls up to the curb a few minutes later, and Arthur breathes a sigh of relief. When he opens the door and sees who's driving, however, he curses Ariadne and all of her future offspring. This is the first time he and Eames have looked each other in the eye since the dream.

“Come on then, before you drown.” Eames grins. “Though I suppose there's something romantic about the idea of you floating downstream on your back, clad head to toe in Prada.”

“Dunhill, actually,” Arthur replies as he climbs into the car.

They're idling at a stoplight when Eames drapes his arm over the back of Arthur's seat. The gesture is familiar, oddly intimate in a way that makes Arthur's skin prickle. Eames glances at him and says, in a tone that Arthur doesn't quite recognize, “Your hair curls when it's wet.”

“Yes, well,” Arthur replies. Eames' thumb grazes the back of his neck, and he shivers but doesn't pull away.

They spend the rest of the trip in silence.

~*~*~

Sometimes, Arthur wakes in the middle of the night with an ache in the pit of his stomach, like he's lost something that never belonged to him in the first place.

~*~*~

They're in a bar, and Arthur is drunk. He doesn't remember how either of those things happened.

“Darling?” Eames whispers. His breath is hot on the back of Arthur's neck.

“I don't know,” Arthur mutters, because he _doesn't_. He doesn't know what Eames is asking him, or why he's leaning against Eames and letting Eames unbutton his vest. He slips a hand into his pocket and curls his fingers around the weighted die.

Eames kisses his shoulder, and Arthur forgets.

~*~*~

The mark's sister owns a cafe in Chelsea. On the day before the job, Arthur announces that's going to drop by the restaurant for some last-minute surveillance. He means to go alone, but Eames makes a convincing argument (“But darling, what if I need to forge her? It would help if I could get an eyeful beforehand.”) so Arthur brings him along.

They blend in with the London businessmen who have stopped in for their morning coffee. Eames is wearing grey flannel, and even though it's been expertly tailored, it looks wrong with his cocky swagger and lazy slouch. Arthur never imagined he'd miss salmon pink.

They order their coffee and settle in at a table near the back, Arthur with a netbook and Eames with a copy of _Simulacra and Simulation_ in its original French. Arthur stares. He wonders if Eames is being funny on purpose, or if he's just grabbed a random title from Ariadne's bookshelf.

“Have I managed to get something on my tie already?”

Arthur jerks to attention.

Eames is smirking at him, but the corners of his lips are tight and there's a wariness in his expression that Arthur has never seen there before.

“Do you even speak French?” Arthur asks.

“ _Bien sûr, mon amour._ ”

“Hm.” Arthur quirks an eyebrow. “And you read French philosophy for fun?”

“Sometimes.” Eames is grinning now, easy and self-assured. “And sometimes I pretend to read it because it I know it will make someone laugh.”

Arthur can't help but smile. “I hate to disappoint you, Mr. Eames, but I don't think anyone here will get the joke.”

“You did.”

Arthur realizes too late that Eames is giving him _that_ look again, the one that makes Arthur feel like he's the only person on the planet worth looking at. No wonder Eames is so good at what he does.

“You know, pet, we haven't discussed the dream,” Eames says.

For one brief, terrifying moment, Arthur thinks that Eames is talking about the other dreams, the ones he has when he's alone and no one can see him.

“Arthur,” Eames says. His voice is soft, and he reaches across the table like he wants to touch Arthur's hand but thinks better of it at the last second. “Don't you want to know why my projections didn't attack you?”

Arthur stares at the tabletop, where their fingertips are just inches from brushing, then jerks his hand away and says, “No.”

~*~*~

A single idea can change everything.

~*~*~

The job was supposed to be easy. It _would_ have been easy if the mark, an elderly war veteran with early onset dementia, hadn't conjured a gun and shot Arthur in the chest. Arthur feels like such a fool; if there's one thing he should have learned from the Fischer job, it's to never underestimate a mark's subconscious.

Saito and Cobb take off after the mark, but Eames is at Arthur's side before he even hits the ground.

“Get off,” Arthur says. He's clutching his chest and trying not to heave from the feeling of his own blood seeping through his fingers. They're in the desert again, surrounded by dust, and gunfire, and nearly unbearable heat. There's grit in his mouth. When he coughs, the blood he spits out is bright red against the pale sand.

They're far enough under this time that limbo is a very real threat.

“Stop it,” Eames growls when Arthur tries to shove his hands away. The anger in his voice is so startling that Arthur stills and lets himself be rolled onto his back. Eames looms over him, blocking the sun. He covers the gushing bullet wound with both hands and says, “You're going to be okay, Arthur.”

Arthur lets out a strained laugh. “You don't know everything, Eames. God, you're so-- you're so fucking egotistical and you just don't--”

“I know.” Eames is more serious than Arthur has ever seen him. “But you _will_ be okay.”

“And if I'm not?” Arthur means for it to come out as a challenge, but it sounds more like a plea.

And just like that, Edith Piaf begins to sing. Her voice echoes off the crumbling cement and reverberates across the clear desert sky.

“Today's not your day, love,” Eames murmurs as he leans down to press his forehead to Arthur's. “But I'd follow you, if it came to that. I'd find you and bring you back.”

Arthur closes his eyes, wraps his bloody fingers around the back of Eames' neck, crushes their lips together and waits for the kick.


End file.
